


THE ONLY HEAVEN I'LL BE SENT TO IS WHEN I'M ALONE WITH YOU

by flammable_heart



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Actor Tom Hiddleston, Alternate Universe - Priests, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Childhood Sweethearts, Church Sex, Confessional Sex, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Original Fiction, Priest Kink, Priests, Sex, Smut, Tom Hiddleston Feels, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, priest Tom hiddleston
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_heart/pseuds/flammable_heart
Summary: Father Thomas Hiddleston is a good priest, satisfied with the life he'd chosen more than ten years ago. His faith wavers but there's little else in his life to keep him from God's work.Until his childhood sweetheart walks back into his church after more than ten years of staying away.You're engaged to be married, unaware that Tom is now a priest at the church you intend to be married in. When you realize, it's a struggle to keep all of your long held feelings for him at bay.Will you go through with your plans to marry your fiancé, or will you give in to the longing you've felt for Tom all these years? And in doing so, will you pull Tom down into sin with you?
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston & Reader, Tom Hiddleston & You, Tom Hiddleston/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/You
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57





	1. Take Me To Church

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: angst, smut (vaginal sex, fingering, oral—male & female receiving), lots of sinning in a church
> 
> 18+ READERS ONLY
> 
> Okay, so, I've always had a weird fascination with the catholic church (I wanted to be a nun when I was a kid, even though I'm not catholic 😂) and that is where this idea came from. I have to say right now, it's going to get worse before it gets better, and I can't promise you a happy ending...but let's see where the journey takes us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your excitement for your upcoming wedding is dampened when you realize your childhood sweetheart, Tom, is now a priest at the church you intend to have your wedding in.
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: angst, language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this sick sad adventure...
> 
> 💜

**_Colossians 3:5-6_  
** _So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires. Don’t be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world._

Mass is quick on Thursday afternoons, mostly attended by elderly women and the odd housewife that fancies a little show before her husband gets home from work. He bows his head, prays like he means it though his faith in God has been wavering for a long time, and passes out the eucharist like he’s meant to. Annie Smith’s fingers brush his cuff as he hands her the tiny wafer, his cheeks tinging red at the forbidden contact and the way she smiles at him. And it’s like every other Thursday on record, except that after today, nothing will ever be the same.

As a boy, Tom had always been attracted to the mystical qualities of the catholic church, to the idea of a loving God. He’d hidden in alcoves, staring up at brightly painted statues of saints, believing that if he was good, everything would be okay. He believed that for a long time; believed that if he gave things up to God, they would work out for the best. 

His faith begins to waver the night the girl he’s loved since he was a child leaves for university. You dated for years in high school—the natural progression from friends to lovers nothing if not easy. And you loved him, you did, but all the talk with your friends about being free and _really_ experiencing life outside the bounds of your parents’ grip got to you. The night you said goodbye to Tom, you said it with tears in your eyes, on the heels of the words, “We should take some time apart. If we’re really meant to be together, we’ll find each other again”. You didn’t know then, that it would be many years until you saw him again.

You feel like a stranger in your hometown after more than ten years away. But you’re pleased to be back—the narrow streets filled with cars and familiar faces lingering in almost every shop doorway. This should have happened much sooner, but a gnawing anxiety held you back; a rock in the pit of your stomach with _his_ name attached. You don’t even know if he still lives in town, the unspoken promise between you and your mother that he never be spoken about lingering in the silence of every phone call. There are no pre-homecoming Facebook searches, no questions for the woman who’s invited you home to plan your wedding. You run headlong into the idea that everything will be fine—reckless as always.

Andy loves the look of the old church—brick facade, careful landscaping bordering on secret garden in the places where they’ve failed to keep the ivy at bay. His fingers twine with yours as you climb the steps, an ache in your heart as you pass by the alcove with the statue of St. Rita of Cascia perched in her niche, where you’d stolen kisses with Tom as a child. But the patron saint of impossible dreams has still blessed you with the thing you always wished for—a soulmate, a soon-to-be husband. You remind yourself of that as you walk into the sanctuary to meet with Monsignor Devella, instead seeing a much younger man at the altar. He speaks quietly to the altar boys before they leave, cheeky grins on the boys’ faces as they scurry away for their catechisms. 

He doesn’t have to turn around for you to recognize the set of those shoulders, though he’s taller and thinner than you remember. “Ah, there you two are!” You hear the old priest call from your left, the younger man turning to face you fully at the sound of the familiar voice. And you can’t even look at Monsignor Devella as your eyes lock with Tom’s, fingers still twined with Andy’s as your fiancé greets the older man. They share pleasantries as a sea opens up between you and the man you left behind all those years ago, eyes searching for something they cannot possibly find. He’s broader now, jaw sharper, cheeks less full, but he’s beautiful all the same with the light shining off his ginger locks and his blue eyes misty. 

You swallow hard when your name is spoken, though it’s not the voice you’re hoping to hear, breathing in for the first time in what seems like hours. Grinning, you nod your head at the assumed excitement of the wedding you plan to have at this church, but there’s a rushing sound in your ears that leaves you feeling hollow. Tom isn’t there when you look back up at the altar, and you’re almost relieved as the monsignor continues to talk.

He feels like he’s seen a ghost, hiding in the spacious closet where they keep the sacramental instruments, his heart beating painfully fast. There was a look of such surprise on your face when you saw him, Tom thinks it can only mean the obvious—you didn’t know. But how could you not? You mother is an avid church goer, visiting him frequently not only for confession, but to feed him little tid-bits about your life. She left out a big one when she failed to tell him you were engaged; that your wedding would be at _his_ church. He wonders now if there isn’t a reason for that.

It’s been so many years since he’s seen you, but he can feel that void in his chest yawning back open, an ache he’s been keeping at bay by pretending it doesn’t exist. He’d thought time and distance would cure it, but seeing you for even a moment had crushed that hope. It had been such a brief moment before he’d found himself striding away, long legs carrying him to the nearest door. He would be embarrassed if he could think about anything but your eyes, staring back at him across the sanctuary, watery and confused. And God you were gorgeous, though smaller than he remembered and inextricably attached to another man.

Just thinking about you again after refusing to for so long has his cock hard in his pants, Tom palming it briefly without thought in the stifling closet. He can forget about the other man if he just focuses on your lips, caught between your teeth at the shock of seeing him. In black robes. That’s the thought that has him adjusting himself, pushing the door open and walking stiffly towards the upper floors of the church.

When their town was very young, the church housed a multitude of nuns who kept the canonical hours. No one does it anymore, the floor overlooking the sanctuary dusty and creaky from disuse. When he wants to get away, Tom comes up here and prays Vespers and when he can’t sleep, he keeps the Matins vigil. His knees ache at 2am as he kneels on the wooden floor, the press of dust and rising heat chasing away all thoughts of you. But not even the Vespers litany can keep his mind from you now, the memory of your hands on his skin rushing back, crowding his thoughts as he struggles with the latin prayers, late into the night.


	2. Words Are Futile Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seeing you in his church after ten years of being apart, the last place Tom thinks he'll find you is coming to confession. But there you are, in the booth across from him, only a fine metal grate separating you. 
> 
> Confession is a place to have your sins absolved, not encouraged, yet Tom cannot help but press you for answers to long asked questions when he realizes you don't recognize him.
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: angst, language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly overwhelmed at the interest in this self-indulgent fic. But I'm so glad you're all enjoying it! 
> 
> 💜

**_John 8:44  
_** _You are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father you will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and stayed not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaks a lie, he speaks of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it._

There’s a certain irony to sitting in judgement of other people’s sins when you’ve got so many of your own. His favorite part of the morning is when he first sits down in the confessional and whispers all of the things he hasn’t told Monsignor Devella into the static air, directly to God. He’d stopped saying your name years ago, stopped beating himself up over loving you more than the god he was supposed to be serving. But then you’d walked into his church and now—

Your name is the only thing on his lips.

His heart has not slid back down into his chest since he saw you, trapped in his fucking throat, and he sits sightly slumped in the confessional, back aching from the hours spent in the same position. He’s not expecting you to show up for confession, thinks there’s nothing you could possibly have to confess, but when the next repentant person kneels before the too thin grate, the voice he hears is achingly familiar. 

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been—too many, _fuck_ —I mean, sorry. It’s been a long time.” Your voice is almost shaking, the warm wood walls of the confessional altogether familiar and foreign at the same time. It hadn’t been your plan to come to the church. In fact, your mother was waiting at the shop to help you pick a wedding dress out. But you’d found yourself driving in this direction instead, pulling into the church’s parking lot, walking determinedly into confession to get the weight off of your chest. And it was a weight, a goddamned boulder on your chest since you’d seen Tom last week. A whole week and it felt like a year, barely able to touch Andy without thinking about the other man, tears springing to your eyes ubidden, every time anyone mentioned the wedding. 

You hear the huff of a laugh from the other side of the screen as you curse, but don’t look up, don’t try to parse out who’s on the other side. You don’t know any of the priests here anymore; besides, you’d know if it was Tom—you’d be able to feel him. “I accuse myself of the following sins,” your eyebrows furrow, trying to find the right words. “Almost sins? Coveting is bad, right? Especially if you’re coveting something that is supposed to belong to God.” Your hands are sweating just at the thought, refusing to look up though your neck already aches from looking down at your clasped hands.

“You’re supposed to be confessing, not accusing yourself my child. But, go on.” It feels almost like they’re playing a game as he speaks, but Tom knows it’s unfair because you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. He can’t believe your head doesn’t shoot up as soon as he speaks, but his throat is so tight from the tears he’s holding back, shot to absolute hell, that he doesn’t even sound like himself. He hears you shifting, moving so that you’re sitting with your back pressed to the hard wood of the confessional wall like he is, instead of kneeling, but he doesn’t chance a look over. That would break whatever spell the two of you are under—two people who don’t know each other, strangers connecting across a cavernous void of a few inches of flimsy metal.

Your eyes hit the ceiling as you try to form a coherent thought, an explanation as to why you’re here. And you squeeze them shut tightly again, “he wasn’t supposed to be here, y’know. Well, of course you don’t, but—we both should have gotten out and stayed out. And it doesn’t even matter anyway! I’m engaged to someone that I love—I _think_ I love him—I mean, if you’d asked me two weeks ago I’d definitely have said I love him. But I think—I think I forgot what love was supposed to feel like. And then I was reminded.” Your heart is literally aching at the revelation, Tom’s beating equally hard, and you breathe out slowly before you go on. It’s not like this is a therapy session after all. “So my sins are as follows—coveting that which isn’t mine and _impure thoughts_.” The last bit is mumbled, eyes finding your hands in the relative darkness as a fierce blush creeps over your cheeks. 

He can feel your discontent filling the space between you, palpable and familiar, just like before you’d left the first time. And now you were back, but things were impossibly different—you engaged to another man, and Tom married to God. “And what does love feel like?” Tom wants to tell you how love feels to him—a red hot coal in the middle of his chest, every limb aching to hold you, his lips holding onto the memory of your last kiss, however brief. And he was not supposed to ask questions like this, couldn’t possibly tell you that he still loved you as much as he had ten years ago. 

The question he asks is not at all what you’re expecting, but you resist the urge to look over at the priest, instead running your fingers through your hair and taking a deep breath. How were you supposed to describe something utterly indescribable? “Well, I imagine it’s different for everyone, but for me it’s full of contradictions. Feeling safe and secure but also thrilled, knowing someone completely but still being surprised, feeling accepted but challenged. I don’t know, it was like I looked at him and saw a whole future that I couldn’t have, just like that.” You snap your fingers, “but my mind’s never gone beyond the immediate moment with Andy. He never surprises me; I know every step he’s going to make.” 

You’re quiet for a beat, tired of hearing your own voice, tired of filling the void with what feels like whining, and you press the heels of your palms against your eyes hard, almost seeing stars. Your words aren’t doing justice to what you felt like when you were with Tom, nothing ever could. They aren’t painting the proper juxtaposition between him and Andy either. The sigh that leaves your lips is frustrated before you speak again. “I don’t even know if that’s right. I don’t know why I’m letting it get to me, either. He’s moved on and made a life for himself and just because I’m feeling something doesn’t mean he is.” 

Tom watches you as you speak, breath held for God knows how long as he traces the sharp outline of your jaw with his watery eyes, shadowed in the dim light. He remembers the first time he traced the symmetrical outline of your chin—after you’d fallen from your bike and scraped your cheek, the underside of your chin. You’d been kids then, just friends, before the complications of sex and distance and God. 

The back of his head hits the wall, his eyes falling closed as his chest suddenly tightens further. He knows there’s no way to go back, to change the decisions you’ve made, but he’s always been happy that at least you’d gotten out of this suffocating little town, and found someone to complete you. But this—

He wants to say he knows, that he understands wanting something he knows he’ll never have. Instead, he speaks to the ceiling, “But if you felt this way before, why continue on with someone who didn’t make you feel equally as good?” He knows he’s going to blow whatever cover the darkness has provided, even though you haven’t spoken in years. There’s an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he speaks again, knowing he’s going to get himself in trouble. “What if he felt similarly?”

They’re taught in seminary school to ask questions that will make their confesse think about the bigger picture, but all Tom really wants to know is if you would ever tell him directly. And you frown, eyebrows furrowing sharply as you glance sidelong at the screen. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t look too hard, you didn’t want to discern any shapes, but the question throws you. 

It throws you so much that you scold a goddamned priest, “Forgive me Father, but I don’t think those are questions you should be asking.” Tom opens his eyes when you admonish him, biting his lower lip hard as you continue. “Besides, he’s dedicated to something a bit more powerful than an engagement ring, so, I don’t think that’s an option.” All while you try to ignore the catch in your voice as you pack away all those thoughts and fears and hopes. Still, you take in a shuddering breath and offer up a half smile to the air, your voice so fucking hopeful it hurts him. “I suppose, if he did feel similarly, we’d have some big decisions to make.” 

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Tom wants to shake you when he hears that little catch in your voice, to scream that of course he feels the same way—he’s been miserable without you. Instead, he breathes out a laugh, “I shouldn’t be asking because I’m your priest, or because you don’t have a good answer for the question? Don’t you think God brings people back into your life for a reason?” His throat hurts like hell and he knows he doesn’t sound like himself, especially with the weird echo that the confessional booth produces.

You can feel yourself bristling at his next set of questions, and your jaw sets, tongue running along your lower lip, teeth surreptitiously bared as you shake your head. “I think God created a beautiful world, but I don’t believe he has much hand in the day to day. If I had run into my abuser instead of the love of my life would you ask the same question?” You cross your arms in front of your chest, sitting there like a petulant teen, waiting for a rebuttal, wondering if this unusually pressing priest even has one.

_The love of your life._

You had never admitted that when you were still together, but you’d been so young and inexperienced. Maybe all that time had been good for you both—for you at least, since he’s never touched another woman since you, or even thought about anyone else. In those early years he’d stayed childishly rooted in the idea that you would come back, and then after seminary school it just hadn’t mattered anymore—he’d been fine wallowing in his own misery, missing you and punishing himself with celibacy.

He sighs, knowing that nothing he says will make you any less angry or confused. “But you didn’t run into your abuser. We’re talking about a man you’re still in love with.” He knows that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth, and despite the fact that he has lost so much of his faith over the last ten years, he still stands strong in the conviction that God or the universe puts people where they’re supposed to be, even if they don’t yet realize it.

You nod, jaw still set, tongue now running along your teeth, mentally counting each tooth as you think about what you want to say next. You know what you want to do—you want to rip down the metal barrier and tell the man on the other side to get fucked, because this is treading very close to a false sense of hope, and it’s not right. He is meant to absolve you of your sins, not goad you into committing more. Finally you clear your throat, trying to take the edge out of your voice and failing. “Can you tell me how many hail Mary’s I have to complete so we can call this finished?” You’re still not looking at him, sure he can feel the anger coming off of you in waves, and you don’t care. This isn’t how confession is supposed to work.

The anger in your voice makes him sick, and he wants you to go as badly as you do, just to break the tension. Maybe this is how it would be if you admitted your feelings to one another face to face, and it kills him to know that he will never be able to tell you what he’s heard today. It’s just a confirmation that everything he believes to be true is a lie. His voice just sounds tired when he answers, a hand swiped over his face. “6 hail Mary’s and 3 our Fathers.”

There’s so much more he wants to say before you both have to leave and pretend that everything is okay. But he stays where he is, keeps his mouth shut until he hears you readying yourself to leave. “You should talk to him though. Before it’s too late.” But it seems too late already, and he can feel the distance growing between you exponentially. 

Your silence says everything as you leave, no closing prayer, no thank you, just the sound of your heels hitting the cold stone as you exit the confessional.


	3. We Use Our Eyes To Fill In The Gaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words 'before it's too late' linger in your mind after your last confession, so you go to Tom's office to apologize. The apology turns into something much more, and you're not sure where you stand when you're forced to leave.
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: angst, sinning in church

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys! We've finally made it to some action, so prepare your little hearts...
> 
> And as always, I deeply appreciate your love and kudos and comments.
> 
> 💜

**_Psalm 63:3  
_** _Because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise you._

_Before it’s too late._

But it’s already too late. It was too late when you got into your car at eighteen, when you drove away from his house and knew he’d stand there until his legs couldn’t hold him up any longer. This is your fault, and you force yourself down the long hallway, silent save for the click of your heels and your own heart beating in your ears. And he obviously isn’t expecting anyone, leaning over his desk, immersed in a dissertation about catholic art during the renaissance. He’s so enthralled with the piece that he doesn’t see you hovering outside the half-open door, your heart aching but a smirk on your lips as you knock, your foot already over the threshold before he hears the sound of your voice. “Should I call you Father now?”

He winces visibly at the name, but before he can catch himself Tom glances up, a smirk on his own pretty lips. “I’d prefer daddy, but Tom will do just fine.” He unfolds himself to stand at his full height, watching you for a moment with his arms crossed over his chest, as though he’d ward you away. But he doesn’t want to keep up the facade, despite the open door and the threat of all those carefully hidden feelings leaking out through his pores. So he easily crosses the six feet that separate you, wraps you up in a hug so tight that neither of you can breathe for a moment, his lips pressed into your hair, your eyes closed so tightly that you can barely feel him pull away. 

But he does pull away, forces his hands to his sides and tries not to think about how you still smell exactly the same, pushes the thought of you pressed against him as far from the front of his mind as possible. And you’re nearly bereft without his touch, suddenly cold and shaking slightly, wondering what detergent he uses now, because he only smells half like he used to. You want desperately to explore that, to be reminded how warm his skin is, but you clasp your hands in front of you in a last ditch effort to be good. You’re not going to think about your aching fingers anymore, aren’t going to let the laugh escape your chest when he says the word ‘daddy’. 

“I wanted to stop by after I saw you the other week when Andy and I were—” you’re rambling, and you force yourself to finish before looking at him again. “When we were securing the church for the wedding. I didn’t get to say anything before we left.” You don’t ask why he left so abruptly, you’d have done the same thing if Andy hadn’t been holding you in your spot. And god he looks wounded just from the sound of your voice, but you speak again, breathing the words from your too tight chest. “How are you?”

You have always made Tom nervous in a way that he can’t quite understand. Even when you were best friends, lovers for whatever brief time you had together, he still trembled at the sound of your voice. And now all he can do is nod, unsure of himself with so little space between you, and your fiance's name hanging in the air. “Right, _Andy_ . I’m sorry I left so abruptly, but I had to take a call. But I’m sure the wedding will be lovely. I’m sure _he’s_ lovely.” But you don’t think he sounds sure at all, and you hate the sound of his name on Tom’s lips. You hate yourself more for hating it, look at the wall behind Tom’s head to keep from revealing too much, though he’s caught that flinch, the sudden stiffness in your body as he says the other man’s name. And he cannot help but think about what you said in the confessional the other week—about how Andy never surprises you. 

“My mother is certainly trying to make it lovely. I’ve not planned a single thing.” There’s a tinge of disdain in your voice that you fail to hide, still angry that your mother didn’t tell you about Tom. Still, you hear him trying to brush it off, saying something about how beautiful a mass Monsignor Devella does, all while you’re trying your damnedest not to notice how sharp his jaw has gotten, how broad his shoulders are after ten years of growing up. And you’ve changed too—but all he can see are your bright eyes staring back at him, a mirror of the longing that’s never left him for you.

He reaches a hand out, fingertips brushing the back of your hand lightly as he tilts his head to the side slightly. What can he say?

Oh and you are nothing if not reckless, that tiny touch of skin all you need to twist your fingers into the fabric of Tom’s shirt, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. And despite everything in his head screaming for him to stop, he meets your lips with his own, his heart stuttering in his chest at the familiar slide of skin against skin. You taste just like he remembers, his tongue hesitant for a moment until it’s met with the desperate sound of you opening your mouth to him. It takes everything in him to keep his arms wrapped around your waist, breathing in the shaky breath you exhale, his mouth a hairsbreadth from yours when you hear someone drop something in the hall. That has you pulling away, hands still on his chest, hearts beating wildly in your ribcages. He feels like he could die happy, though everything is aching when you apologize quietly. Shaking his head, Tom lets one hand rest over yours above his heart, as he leans forward to push the door closed. “Don’t.” _Don’t go. Don’t apologize._ He doesn’t entirely know what he’s saying, wanting only to blame himself for this mess.

Tom thinks about all of the choices that have brought you to this point—when he chose to let you go, when he chose not to call or ask how you were, when he chose to take vows binding him to celibacy and a life devoted to God. And now he’s thinking about the choice he made to kiss you back, to close the door and press your back against it, his hand in your hair, his lips back on yours. It’s a sin, but it’s the sweetest sin he could ever have imagined, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, fingers pressing into your hip. If he has to say goodbye again, he’ll make it count this time, praying against your pulse point, telling you he never should have let you go. 

You can barely breathe, hands pushed up under Tom’s shirt, his muscles jumping at the now unfamiliar contact. Letting your lips trail across his jawline, your nose traces a line down his throat, eliciting a sharp hiss as his hips buck forward. But you stop just above the stiff line of his collar, a not at all subtle reminder of the crimes you're committing—against God, against the man you’re supposed to be marrying. Tom knows it’s wrong, but he cannot stop himself from pulling the white fabric from his black shirt, letting the collar fall on the floor as he presses himself flush against you, his mouth on yours again, every fiber of his being aching for you. It’s like he’s already made his decision, his pulse quickening at the freeing act. “Please.” You hear that word fall from his swollen lips, cheeks flushed with your proximity and all the want in your bodies, and you let your hands slide up his sides. You’d give him everything, and you melt into his touch, into the way he leads you—he the shepherd and you the lamb. 

He’s panting by the time he pulls away even slightly, resting his forehead against yours, resisting the urge to angle his hips down. “God, I missed you.” The Lord’s name is a curse on his lips, but he doesn’t care, knows he can’t pray this away and doesn’t even want to try. And you mirror the sentiment, hands finding his face, thumbs tracing his high cheekbones before one trails down the center of his lips. He kisses the pad of your thumb, ready to claim your mouth again until he hears Monsignor Devella speaking to someone further down the hall. The voices drift closer and as much as you want to, you don’t hold onto him when he takes a step away, forces himself to lean down and pick his collar up off of the ground and replace it at his neck. “I guess this is goodbye again.” He feels so far away when he says it, looking at his feet instead of you. 

“This can’t be it Tom.” You push yourself off the door, but his face hardens and you keep your hands to yourself. The pain in his eyes is evident, and your heart is breaking again, just the way it did when you left for school all those years ago. You know it’s impossible, but there must be some way to fix this.

“When would you like to see me? Confession? Your wedding perhaps?” His voice is bitter when he spits the words out, angrier at himself than he is with you. It’s his fault for letting this get as far as it did. And he can see you wince as he speaks, hands fisting at his sides as he resists the urge to reach out for you. “I never stopped loving you—this isn’t easy for me. But you’re getting married; there isn’t much else for us to do.” He won’t ask you to change your mind, won’t ask you to choose him instead, because he knows if you still loved him, you would never have agreed to marry another man. 

But things aren’t that simple, and you’re holding back tears by looking at the lights in the plaster ceiling. “And if I wasn’t, then what?” It’s a cruel question, but you need to know. You don’t think about the fact that even if you weren’t engaged, he would still be married to God. You would still be separated.

He turns his back so that you cannot see his face, can’t see the pain written there because he knows he would still give everything up for you, if you only asked. “It doesn’t matter.” His chest is so tight that his voice doesn’t even sound like his own, but he chokes the words out anyway, because they’re true. You need to hear them so that you can move on. The truth is that you both chose your lives long ago, and now you must live with the choices you’ve made—

He was fine sleeping four hours a night, so tired he can barely function, too tired to think about you until you showed up at his church and turned everything upside down. He was fine being half a person, as long as he knew that you were happy. But you’re not happy, and Tom doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that knowledge.

A sharp knock on the door makes you jump and you still look startled when Monsignor Devella lets himself in, apologizing when he sees your face. “Thank you for your time Father.” You throw the words over your shoulder as you push through the door, Tom never turning around so he doesn’t have to watch you leave again. It’s not until you get to your car that you realize you’re crying, body wracked with sobs, resting your head on the steering wheel as you try to cry out the visceral ache in your chest.


	4. A Coma Might Feel Better Than This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They want each other so badly it hurts, so they punish themselves in an attempt to make it go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18+ READERS ONLY
> 
> WARNINGS: smut (vaginal fingering, jerking off), orgasm denial, angst
> 
> Here we are, back at it with the Sinful Sundays. It's a short chapter this week, but no less tempting!
> 
> 💜

**_Isaiah 64:6_ **

_ We are all infected and impure with sin. When we display our righteous deeds, they are nothing but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall, and our sins sweep us away like the wind.  _

_ You walk slowly down the aisle, hands squeezing your father’s arm, eyes leaking tears that you aren’t certain are happy or sad. Everyone looks so joyful, your father included, so you force a smile onto your face though your gut clenches in worry. You ask your father where he is, eyes searching for the man you’ve loved your entire life, and he nods his head towards the front of the room. And there you see him, standing next to Andy, black robes pooling at his feet as he readies himself to marry you to another man _ —

You wake breathless, a lump in your throat and tears wetting your cheeks. It’s a nightmare that you’ve been having for the last week; dreams haunted by the idea that you’re making the wrong choice. It should be so easy—you left Tom ten years ago, he chose a different life, and Andy is here and he loves you. He doesn’t ask you to tell him what love is, isn’t turning your whole life upside down every time you see him. He’s simple—the logical choice, because if you really think about it, there isn’t much of a choice here.

_ He still loves you _ . 

The thoughts gnaw at your stomach, and you suck in a shaky breath as you stir. “Baby.” His morning voice is practically a growl, your cunt involuntarily clenching at the smoky sound. Andy rolls over, still half asleep and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. It used to be such a comforting ritual, but it feels almost hollow now that you’ve had Tom’s arms around you again. Still, you let him draw you in, his lips on the nape of your neck, your fingers running up his arm. His morning arousal is hot and hard against your ass, his breath drifting across your shoulder as his hand slides down the front of your underwear. You relish the feeling of his tongue and teeth on your cold morning skin, running your nails over his scalp as he palms your still clothed cunt.

“God—” His name is practically a moan as you squirm against Andy’s cock, your nails scraping along his scalp, hand twisting in his hair as his fingers push aside your panties. With him behind you, you can imagine that it’s Tom’s fingers delving into your core, stretching you open so you’re ready for his thick length. He holds you tightly against him as you writhe, trying to get more friction, a whining mess as you lose yourself to your thoughts, his fingers circling your clit tightly. 

It takes everything in you not to call out Tom’s name, fisting Andy’s dick and pumping a few times before rubbing it through your dripping folds. His fingers are still inside of you, curling to reach that sweet spot and that coil is tightening in your core, even as you try to fight it. But Andy says your name again, asks you to come for him and you flinch, your cunt clenching around his fingers, hips bucking forward involuntarily. 

“I have to get up.” You’re already disentangling yourself from him, shaky as you slide from the sheets to punish yourself with the suddenly cold air. “Don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight.” You can’t even look at him as you pull pants over your hips, feeling dirty for letting him touch you while you thought of Tom, however briefly it had been.

*** * ***

— _ You fall to your knees, head bowed. He’d watched as Andy put the ring on your finger, but here you are, praying to him instead. You say his name over and over and over until it sounds foreign, until he cannot resist the urge to touch you any longer. And then he’s on his knees as well, fingers shaking as he tries to unlace your dress, breath catching as his fingertips finally make contact with your skin. And you’re kissing his pulse point, sucking a mark so deeply purple that there will be no way of covering it up. He can’t breathe as your hands snake under his shirt, all of his sins suddenly exposed to the light as you unbutton it. _

He wakes up sweating, cock hard and pressed into the mattress, the remnants of a dream lingering in the back of his mind. Tom knows there’s no going back from their conversation of the day before—he told you he loved you; you did not reciprocate those feelings. But you’d kissed him anyway, had ruined any promise of goodness he’d ever made to God and himself.

He is suffering without you. 

A cold shower is waiting for him as he lays still in the darkness, dick still throbbing with the thought of your lips on his skin, hips pressing into the mattress for the barest bit of friction. Everything is so sensitive, cock aching for stimulation after so many years of disuse. If he touches himself it’ll be over quick, the suffering ended, at least for a little while. But that would be another betrayal to himself, to God watching on high.

Closing his eyes, Tom presses his face into his pillow, a moan stifled by the fabric. He can’t stop moving his hips, cock brushing against the sheets, breath held as if that’ll make things better. His lungs are aching when he flips over, sheets thrown off, bare skin too hot to feel the chill air of his small room. After a moment of labored breathing, he grasps his length, the delicious feeling of pressure as he runs his palm up to the tip, swiping away the pre-cum with his thumb before he slides it back down. He can’t help the jerk of his hips as he pumps more quickly, the memory of your lips on his spurring him on, the thought of sinking his cock into your tight, wet cunt bringing him to the edge. Brushing his fingers against one of his overly sensitive nipples, Tom whines out your name; a curse, a prayer, the only thing he truly wants.

He can feel that distantly familiar pressure at the base of his spine building, panting as he lets his hips stutter—so close, so close. But he can’t let himself come, can’t afford himself the pleasure of release when everything, including this, is leading to your downfall. If he cannot control himself here, how will he ever be able to control himself the next time he sees you? He wants to cry it feels so fucking good, but he imagines fucking you again would feel so much better. Practically shaking, Tom lets go of himself, laying in the middle of his bed as his painfully hard cock slowly softens, a sweat he hadn’t realized he’d worked up chilling his skin. They’ll need him for mass in an hour, another punishment for sins he can never atone for. Cupping his balls one last time, Tom wars with his gut as to whether he should let his half hard dick go the rest of the way, or if he could, just this once, let himself come. But the voice in the back of his head has him pushing himself out of bed and towards a lonely shower where the brush of the washcloth against his skin will be torture.

**Author's Note:**

> [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1nZCLIkh0zEww42ckNMHSl?si=FzVNiJbnS4imBX05ljpgYg)


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